Thursday, 28 February 2008

The final night of that weekend is one that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

After the hustle and bustle of our friends had gone, it was just the two of us left in that big house. We are used to being together within the confines of a four-room flat and the volume that suddenly surrounded us was quite strange, especially knowing what we both had in mind for the coming night.

On the first evening, as soon as I saw that shower, I knew that at least one of our fantasies was going to be fulfilled over the following 48 hours. It was one of those big walk-in cubicles and there was definitely comfortably room for two. When Ruf also mentioned how big the shower was, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

I have had shower sex before, I think. In the deep, distant past. I recall snapshot memories of hands and soap, followed by acute disappointment at the discomfort because water and soap are not good lubricants.

So, after snuggling up on the sofa for an hour after tea as we companionably read the Sunday supplements and let our food go down, I was not surprised when Ruf stood up and held out his hand. He pulled me off the sofa and led me up the stairs towards that room.

I was a bit scared to be honest. That tiny snippet of memory kept trying to surface in my head and, after some of the challenges to our lovemaking over the previous few days, I didn't want this fantasy to go awry.

Because this is a big one.

How many times have I stood in a shower, letting the torrents stream over me and imagined his hands washing me. Wanted to feel his body pressed against mine as the water subsumed us. Tried desperately to capture the feel of him inside me, simultaneously filling and immersing myself in heat and moisture.

But this is Ruf. I do not need to say anything. It is as if he knows. As if he senses my dilemma, my concerns. And he treats me as he always does. His lips take mine and he flies me away somewhere else where I no longer have the capacity to think about anything but the passion that he generates in me. Clothes evaporate and there is only nakedness and the sound of the water pattering against the plastic base as he leads me inside and turns me to face him.

So often, I have refused to do things because 'I don't want to ruin my hair' and it must have given him enormous pleasure to push me straight under the flood surging from the showerhead. Hot, wet rivulets drenching my crowning glory, cascading across my face and down my body. Eyes closed as I felt him start to apply the soap. Each centimetre of my skin was gently washed and rinsed as the water flowed over me. My mind engulfed by the twin stimuli of the diluvian downpour and the caress of his fingers, leaving me breathless and longing.

Wanting him with every fibre of my being. Hyperventilating with the intensity of what was happening. I couldn't breathe properly as the deluge gushed over me. With panic in my chest, I gasped and panted for air and looked up at him through the barrier of my sopping fringe. Visibly trembling with the effort of breathing through the overwhelming emotion of everything that I was feeling.

Looking back, I don't think I have ever felt so sexually aroused as at that moment. I am incapable of putting into words the magnitude of the desire I felt. Sheer, unbridled, naked lust for this man. And, from the expression on his face as he looked back at me, I know he knew it too.

Admiring him through the steam and spray as I watched my own hands soaping and rinsing the body that I have come to adore. The stubble of his chin. That dimple. The hair on his chest. The tattoos on his arms. His strong belly and shapely legs. And that cute little butt. Before sinking to my knees to wash the part that so frequently joins us. Cleansing and sluicing as the water spurted around my shoulders and over my face. I pushed back my sodden hair, opened my mouth and took him.

Clamping my hands onto his buttocks, I devoured him as the deluge consumed us. Until he could take no more and dragged me up for kisses, taking me back to that state of intense arousal where I was shivering and panting, the feeling of hysteria not so far away. Pulling away and turning, I bent over so he could take what I so willingly offered. Alternately gripping my ankles and clawing at the tiles, I opened my mouth to scream... and drowned in the heat of him, lost in a world of steamy, wet wantonness.

For a brief moment he left me alone beneath the jets, shaken and very much stirred, as he dried himself. But it wasn't long before he was helping me to step out and tenderly rubbing the towel over every last inch of skin before wrapping me in it as we kissed again.

Just one look into his eyes was enough to tell me that this was only the first instalment.

He took me by the hand once more and led me to the bedroom with its six foot expanse of pushed-together beds.

The night was still young, there was tape to be tied, toys to be tested.

Did you ever see a film starring Bruce Willis as a shrink whose friend got murdered? There was a scene where he actually had sex with a woman in a swimming pool while they were both underwater. I still can't work our how they did it without an aqualung. I hope I'm putting ideas into your head!

Hey, have you ever thought about trying to get paid for your stories? If you slipped in a overlying theme and a small little plot (international espionage perhaps?) you could wrap a bunch of the stories up into a book. You could be the next Jackie Collins or (insert appropriate UK equivalent).

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